


Acts of Fatherhood

by helsinkibaby



Category: West Wing
Genre: F/M, Het, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 11:11:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2148507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Zoey missing, Will needs to see someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acts of Fatherhood

**Author's Note:**

> For the LiveJournal OC Challenge … inspired by Will’s mention of the President invoking the 25th as “a fairly stunning act of patriotism… and a fairly ordinary act of fatherhood.”

He went back to his office after talking to CJ, pausing for a moment in the bullpen to look at the numerous television screens, all of which were now showing the very woman he'd just left, flashbulbs popping in her face, and he wondered how in the world she could walk out there with such grace and poise with all that had happened in the last two hours. It was their worst nightmare, the President's worse nightmare, and it was happening, with their every move about to be second guessed and dissected by talking heads all over the world.

It was going to be a long night, after what had already been a long day, and as he looked around him, saw the flurries of activity, punctuated by pauses to look at CJ's briefing, he wondered how they were going to get through it.

Sighing, he shook himself, moving into his office, closing the door carefully behind him before sitting down heavily in his chair, reaching blindly for the phone and punching in a number that he knew by heart. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes, reaching up under his glasses to squeeze the bridge of his nose, hoping that it would relieve some of the tension that seemed to be settling there, blinking in surprise when he heard a voice on the other end of the phone after barely one ring. It was as if whoever was at the other end of the line had been waiting for a call, was literally sitting by the phone, and against all the odds, he felt a smile come to his face as he realised that that was more than likely exactly what had happened.

"It's me," he said simply, biting back a smile when he heard her reply. "I’m surprised it took me this long too," he told her, because he'd wanted to talk to her, had ever since he'd first heard about Zoey, and this had been the first chance he'd got. "I’m ok," he said, in response to her query, rolling his eyes at her expression of disbelief. "I didn't roll my eyes," he said immediately after, knowing that she wasn't going to believe him for a second. Nor did she, literally snorting with disgust before her voice became softer, asking him a one-word question. "Seriously?" he replied. "I don't know how I am…how any of us are. I have no idea what's going to happen…and I have never felt so out of my depth." A sigh of pure frustration ended his words, and in the silence that followed, he could hear CJ's muffled, tinny voice at the other end of the phone, knew that she, like the rest of the country, was looking at the press briefing. "I don't know how he's doing…I just keep thinking…" He sighed, and she didn't say anything for a long time, and when he finally spoke, it was in the quietest of whispers. "How is she?" The answer made him smile, a real smile, and he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. "Good…that's good…" She said something else and he glanced at his watch, wishing that he could take her suggestion. "I want to…but I don't know when I'll be able to get out of here." She spoke again, and he nodded. "OK then… I'll come over when I can." A pause. "Yeah. Me too."

>*<*>*<

That phone conversation took place in the early hours of Saturday morning, when Zoey had been missing a scant two hours, and the whole West Wing, if not the whole of Washington, was in a state of heightened panic and confusion. Some twenty-four hours later, not much had changed, though in a sense, everything had.

Zoey was still missing.

Glen Walken, a Republican that Will despised with every fibre of his being was Acting President.

He himself was still feeling hopelessly out of his depth, taking the barest sliver of consolation in the fact that from the tired eyes and hopeless feeling around the West Wing that everyone else was feeling the same way, and it had been a relief when Leo had, less than an hour ago, given the Senior Staff the order to go home, snatch a few hours rest, come back refreshed in the morning.

Leo himself had disappeared somewhere; ostensibly home, but Will had his doubts. He’d lost track of CJ during the evening, while Donna had told him that she was going to go home, and that Carol had told her that people had been leaving stuff for Zoey outside the gate all day. She’d been intending on dragging Josh out to see them and then home, and Will had been about to ask her whose home, but sleeplessness hadn’t quite rendered him suicidal. He’d left Toby in his office, working on one of the speeches they needed, and there was a part of Will that felt vaguely guilty, as if he should be working with Toby, helping him. The fact was though, that he’d talked to Zoey the afternoon of her graduation, they’d been discussing France and Avignon and he’d been telling her everything that she needed to see in the area. The idea of writing a speech announcing her death turned his stomach, and he couldn’t do it without a good night’s sleep.

Which is why he found himself in front of a familiar apartment door, knocking on it tiredly, knocking again when there wasn't a response. Second time was the charm, as he heard footsteps coming across the room, before pausing, as if she was checking the peephole, and while he would normally call out something to announce his presence, right now, he didn't have the energy, was just about able to hold himself upright.

Even that much seemed to desert him mere seconds after the door was wrenched open, leaving him staring mute at a woman who bore all the hallmarks of just having been woken from slumber. Her hair, a mane of dark blonde curls, was tousled, and she was wearing a pale green tank top with grey pyjama pants; her usual sleeping attire he knew. Her feet were bare, her left cheek bearing a livid red crease, but her dark eyes were clear and alert, clouding with dismay when she saw Will.

He would never be able to remember later if he actually reached for her and she responded, or if he literally collapsed into her arms and she caught him, but either way, the next thing he knew, the door was shut and he was on the other side, standing with her in her apartment, holding her so tightly to him that he could feel her heart beating against his chest. She didn't seem to mind though, for she was holding him just as tightly, her hands making fists of material against his back, as he buried his face in her hair.

A century later, he reluctantly loosened his hold on her, and she on him, stepping back to see one another better. He knew he must look awful, and attempted to smile at her, but it didn't seem to allay her fears if the look of deepening concern on her face was anything to go by. Will reminded himself not to be surprised, because she always had been able to read him like a book. Sighing, she lifted a hand, laying it on his cheek, his name a whisper on her lips.

He reached up, covering the hand with his, lifting it and bringing it down so that they were entwined by their sides. "I know it's late…" he began, and she shook her head to silence him, letting him know without words that he didn't need to explain.

"I fell asleep on the couch," she admitted with a small smile of what looked like embarrassment. "I'll get you some food," she told him, giving him his cue to shake his head.

"I'm not…" he began, stopping when he saw the look, the one that had bigger men than him quailing in their shoes.

"Will." His name said like that had always and forever been enough to stop his talking, and he nodded, accepting defeat. She smiled again, squeezing his hand. "Go on in," she whispered, giving his hand one more squeeze before walking down the hall with him.

At the end of the hall was the living room and she dropped his hand there, disappearing into the kitchen just off it. He walked through the living room, pulling off his tie and jacket, throwing them on a chair, noting absently the television, tuned to a near silent CNN, the couch with the pillows dented at one end, the coffee table with the countless photos scattered across it. Any other night, he might have made himself comfortable, waited for her to come back, but this wasn't any other night.

Leaving the living room, he made his way into the far hall, bypassing the doors that led to the bathroom and her room, his destination the room at the end of the hall, the door already open a crack. Slowly, silently, he approached, pushing the door open a little more, so that he could see inside.

The sight made him smile.

She was sleeping soundly, a little angel, her face shrouded in peace. Long sandy hair was spread across the pillow, the dim light from the hall casting shadows on her face, but he could still see her clearly, could see the battered plush clown that she held tightly to her. Her breathing was deep and even, and he was afraid to make any moves for fear of waking her, not that he thought he would. She was her mother's daughter, could sleep through anything.

He didn't know how long he stood there, just looking, but he only moved when he felt a presence behind him, felt a hand slide up his back and over his shoulder, felt her come around beside him, resting her head against his upper arm. She reached down, taking his hand in hers again, nodding once when he looked at her, tilting her head towards the living room. He accepted her wordless invitation, allowing her to lead him out of the room with only one last look back at the sleeping child there.

When he got back to the living room, she'd already made herself comfortable on the couch, and he stifled a tired smile when he saw that the photographs on the table had been pushed aside to make way for a plate of sandwiches. Beside the plate were two glasses filled with amber liquid, and he was about open his mouth to speak when she beat him to it. "Eat first, talk later. There's ham or cheese there."

He lifted an eyebrow as he sank down beside her on the couch, jabbing a tired finger at the glasses. "You trying to get me drunk?" he asked, his tone slightly teasing, but she didn't smile when she answered.

"I'm trying to get you to sleep," she told him frankly, tucking her legs underneath her, resting one arm on the back of the couch, leaning her head against it. "You look exhausted."

His head tilted back against the couch cushions, almost of its own accord, and as he closed his eyes he felt her fingers playing with his hair. "I slept in the office,” he told her, and he knew she was giving him that look she had, the one that told him she could see right through him, and he didn’t even have to open his eyes for it to have an effect on him. “But I am," he murmured, turning his head towards her, opening his eyes so that he could see her. She looked more worried than he'd ever seen her, and the sight made him feel even worse. "But I still think you're trying to get me drunk," he finished, wanting to see her smile, even a little.

He got his wish, for the corners of her lips twitched, but seven years of practice meant that she was an old hand at keeping her amusement under wraps. "Eat," she ordered, and with another sigh, he sat up properly, reaching for a sandwich.

He hadn't realised how hungry he was until he actually began to eat, and he didn't speak again until the plate was empty. Still barely hiding her amusement, she told him that she could easily make some more, but he stopped her with a few swift words. He didn't tell her that just sitting here, in this apartment, with her, was making him feel better than he'd felt all day, nor did he tell her that he didn't want her to be even as far away from him as the kitchen.

That wasn't his place anymore.

Maybe she knew it anyway though, because she settled back against the couch cushions, head still propped up on her hand, glass of brandy in the other, and waited for him to speak. After a sip of his own brandy, he might have done, were it not for the silent images of a young Zoey and a much younger President Bartlet that were flickering across the television screen.

"I can switch it off." Despite her quiet offer, she didn't move a muscle, and he couldn't look away from that television screen.

"She looks the same age as Rosie there," he heard his own voice say, and her breath caught.

"They've been running those clips all day," she told him. He'd known that, had been walking by them all day, and every time, his thought had been the same. He had videos much the same in his apartment, full of a sandy-haired sprite playing up to the camera, every so often running up to him. He'd seen himself in President Bartlet, and he couldn't help but wonder how he'd been feeling if something had happened to her. Unfortunately, it had been all too easy to imagine.

"You should have seen him at Georgetown…" Will said, only vaguely aware of what he was saying. "In the car on the way over, when he was up there…he was so proud of her, it was like his feet didn't even touch the ground. And the First Lady didn't stop smiling all day…he gave her a set of pearls, right there in the halls of the West Wing…" His voice trailed off and he took another sip of brandy to wash away the lump in his throat.

"Have you heard anything?" Her voice was very very soft, and the hand that her head had been resting on reached out across the back of the couch, began playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck. A pang of nostalgia swept over him, and he fought very hard to keep his mind on the question.

"Not since the first ransom note," he said. "We've had every crackpot in America calling and faxing and emailing, but no other solid leads…" He sighed. "And somewhere in Washington, there's a sheet of paper with my name on it, witnessing the fact that Glen Walken is our new President." He hadn't realised how bitter he was about that fact until he heard himself say those words out loud, but there it was. Walken was a man who he respected only marginally more than Chuck Webb, and to have found himself standing in the Oval Office, actively participating in his becoming President, sickened him.

"He had to do it…"

"I know that Deb." He hadn't meant to cut her off so forcefully, gave her an apologetic look when he realised that he had. "I know that," he said again. "But this whole thing has me crazy."

Her hand stilled on the back of his neck, the warmth of her palm suffusing through his skin. "It'd drive anyone crazy," she said, and when he followed her gaze, he found himself looking at a picture of a newborn Rosie, her blue eyes wide open, staring entranced at the camera.

He only had to lean forward to pick it up, bringing it closer to him, studying every inch of it, committing it to memory. "Can you believe she was ever that small?" he asked, the familiar pang of loss creeping up on him, because he'd only ever seen her like this in pictures.

A chuckle greeted his question. "Oh, I can never forget it," she told him dryly. "The middle of the night feeds…the two of us walking the floor, her screaming her head off and me not far behind…" She sat up too, laying her brandy glass down on the table, reaching for another picture as her other hand slid across his shoulders. "This is my one of my favourites," she said, passing it over to him, and Will smiled when he saw it - it was one of his favourites too.

In the picture, a grinning Rosie was pictured in between him and Deb, a shiny new plush clown in her arms. All three were smiling at the camera, and in the background were several birthday cards showing the number one. This had been the first picture taken of the three of them together, when he and Deb had only been together for a few weeks, and the toy clown had been the first gift that he'd ever given Rosie. She'd never been without it since, taking it everywhere with her, and even as a seven year old who proclaimed to all and sundry that she was too old for such childish fancies, she still slept with it every night.

"I remember that day," he said, recalling the party, the kids, the plethora of relatives that he'd met for the first time, Rosie's smile when she'd seen her present. "I think it ranks up there with the Inauguration as one of the more nervous moments of my life."

Deb chuckled, squeezing his shoulder briefly. "You and me both," she admitted. "I kept thinking that you'd see my family, spend ten minutes here and then I'd never see you again."

"You should've known better," he said, because the fact of the matter was, he'd been halfway to falling in love with her the day he met her, after only five minutes of conversation. They'd met through work, and when he'd finally worked up the courage to ask her out for dinner, she'd told him that she had something to tell him that might make him change his mind. All kinds of nightmarish possibilities had run through his head - she was seeing someone, she was married, she was half-alien - and the revelation that she had an ten month old daughter at home had come almost as something as a relief. He'd told her that that didn't bother him, and after three weeks, when he was beyond sure that he was falling in love with Deb, she'd finally let him meet Rosie.

He'd fallen in love with that little girl in mere seconds.

Her first birthday party had been their first real outing as a family, and by her second, the three of them were living together and Rosie was calling him Daddy. He'd never been happier in his life, and he still wasn't sure quite what had caused the wheels to come off the wagon. All he knew is that by the time Rosie was five, things weren't working out between him and Deb any more, and they'd agreed that it might be better for all concerned if he moved out. At the back of his mind, he'd told himself that it was only temporary, that they'd be able to work it out, but things hadn't worked out like that. The only request that he'd made of Deb was that he still be able to see Rosie, and with tears in her eyes, she'd told him that she'd never have stopped him, and in two years, she never had. As far as he was concerned, that little girl was his daughter, and Deb was one of his best friends.

Which was something that sat fine with the three of them, but that the outside world seemed to have problems with. Elsie thought the situation was weird, but accepted it, while his father, who hadn't been a big fan of the relationship in the first place, simply avoided the topic altogether. Perhaps he'd learned from what had happened with Will's eldest brother Michael, who upon meeting Deb and Rosie had made several cutting remarks about Will's girlfriend and her bastard child. Will had walked out and the two had never spoken since.

"Yeah," Deb said now, and her voice was a whisper. "I should have."

Silence fell between them, which Will filled by looking through the photographs on the table. "It's funny," he said finally, not for the first time that night only being dimly aware that he was speaking aloud. "I've spent this whole day feeling almost like I'm a fake… that I shouldn't be feeling like this…"

"What do you mean?" He didn't have to look at her to know that she was frowning.

"I'm imagining what I'd do if I were in the President's shoes," he said. "But I can't be… I mean…"

"Stop it." Her voice, while still quiet, mindful of the sleeping child down the hall, left no room for argument. "Don't you dare say that."

"It's true though." He turned serious eyes on her. "I'm not her father. And one of these days, you're going to find some guy..." Aside from the fear of anything happening to Rosie, that was his worst nightmare, that one day he'd find himself surplus to requirements, that he wouldn't be needed in her life anymore. Leaving their home had been hard enough; he was pretty sure that losing her altogether would kill him.

"Will, do you really think I'd let that happen? Do you seriously think that Rosie would let that happen?" Deb's eyes were wide, staring at him in frank disbelief. "Will, you're her father." He closed his eyes at the statement, so he didn't see her lift her hand, didn't know it had left the photographs until he felt it on his cheek. "You are," she repeated, and he opened his eyes, which felt very heavy all of a sudden. "Not the jerk who decided that he didn't want to know. Not some random guy that I might or might not meet. You."

He let out a breath that he hadn't known he'd been holding, and dropping the photographs, he wrapped his arms around her waist, feeling her bury her head in the crook of his neck. Her body was warm against his, the material of her tank top smooth against his arms. If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe that it was two years ago, that the three of them were still living together as a family.

He wanted very much to pretend that, so he did close his eyes, and found it was very hard to remember just why they weren't together any more. He wanted to tell her that, but his voice failed him following a whispered "Debs", and it could have been his imagination, but she seemed to grip him a little tighter when she heard his name for her, the name that he only ever called her in their most private moments.

It seemed a very long time before she released him, pulling away and leaving both hands on his shoulders, staring into his eyes. "Don't ever think like that again," she ordered him, but her voice was choked, and he nodded, and he saw as if it belonged to someone else, his own hand reaching up to brush her hair away from her face, push an errant cloud of curls behind her ear. That done, his hand lingered on her cheek, and she leaned into his touch, but she never took her eyes off his.

"Do you ever wonder-" he began, needing to ask the question, but she stopped him, laying one finger on his lips.

"Yes." The word caused an explosion of something in his heart, and he wanted to speak, but she barely allowed him a beat to let it sink in before she spoke again. "But I don't think we should talk about this now."

She dropped her finger, allowing him to ask, "Why?"

She gave him the tiniest of smiles. "Because you're tired…and you're scared… and you can't have a discussion like that feeling like that."

Put so plainly, he couldn't fault her logic, so he just nodded once. "You're right." A pause. "As always."

"Damn straight." Her characteristic feistiness made him chuckle, a sound which vanished the instant she leaned forward, pressing her lips against his forehead. One hand that had stayed on his shoulder now slid down his arm slowly, taking his hand, and she stood up, pulling him to his feet. "Come on," she said. "Let's go to bed."

"I'll take the couch?" he suggested, and received another look that had bigger men than him quailing in their shoes. He suddenly had the craziest urge to see her and Toby going toe to toe with one another, sure that it would be a sight to behold, and as soon as the image coalesced in his mind, he realised just how much he needed sleep.

"You can share with me," she said simply, and he was about to protest when he saw the look on her face, the look that said she'd made up her mind and woe unto the person who argued with her. She must have seen his doubt though, because she reminded him, "Look it's not as if it's the first time we've done this…" It wasn't even the first time in the last two years, and he found himself giving in.

"That sounds nice," he said simply, grabbing his jacket, allowing her to lead him into her room. He stripped down to his undershirt and boxers, and by then, she was already in bed, snug under the covers. He joined her as soon as he could, and was wondering whether he should give her space or take her in his arms when she solved the problem for him, scooting closer to him, resting her head against his chest. Instinct took over the rest of the way, as he gathered her in his arms, hardly able to fathom how right, how familiar this felt. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her, tightening his arms around her just a little when a lump inexplicably rose in his throat. "I meant to tell you," he said, and he hoped that she couldn't hear the scratchiness in his voice. "I signed a lease on that place I was telling you about last week…"

"Good," she said, and he felt her head tilt upwards, felt her eyes on him. "It's past time you moved out of that hotel."

"It's a nice place," he told her, feeling slumber creeping up on him, but he fought it, wanting, needing, to tell her this now. "It's about the same size as this place, it's close to work…and there's a spare bedroom there…"

He let his voice trail off, and she was quiet for what seemed like a long time. "Oh?" she finally said.

"I was thinking… that I might decorate it for Rosie…so that she can stay there sometimes… if you're ok with that."

Once again, she was silent for what seemed like a long time, and when her hand rose to play with the strands of hair at the nape of his neck, he released a breath he hadn't even realised that he was holding. "She'll like that," she murmured. "But you know she's going to want her own say in what it looks like…"

He chuckled. "Plenty of Angelina Ballerina?"

"Nope. Harry Potter. She's all excited about the new book coming out soon…"

Her voice seemed to come from very far away, and he nodded as if she could see him. "I can handle that…" Even to his own ears, he sounded sleepy, and the last things he was aware of were the warm weight of her body against his, her hand moving through his hair, and her whispered words, telling him to go to sleep.

>*<*>*<

The next thing he was aware of was two voices, one the last one that he'd heard the previous night, the other somewhat louder, higher-pitched, younger. From what he could make out through the closed door, the younger voice was excited, the other trying to calm her down, and he felt a grin coming to his face as he once more battled the impulse to forget that it wasn't two years ago, that this wasn't something that he woke up to every morning.

The glowing red numbers of the clock told him that it was almost seven in the morning, and that alone was enough to jolt him fully to wakefulness. It had been a long time since he'd seen that hour on the alarm clock, especially on a Monday morning, and after a second, he knew that there must have been no further news, because he would have heard his cell phone ringing from his jacket pocket.

Sighing, he got up, gathering his clothes and dressing quickly, a quick look in the mirror assuring him that he did indeed look as if he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards, and he thanked his lucky stars that he had a spare suit in his office - that had been one of the best pieces of advice that Josh had given him, something to do with a bachelor party and canary yellow foul-weather gear, and Will really hadn't wanted to look too hard into that.

Walking down the hall drove all thoughts of Josh out of his head though, as the voices from the kitchen became clearer, in particular the sound of a mother admonishing her daughter to stay quiet. "Remember, I told you, he's very tired… "

"It's ok… I'm awake." Though he had a feeling she wouldn't thank him for it, he cut across her, raising a hand in greeting, dropping it quickly when a loud squeal and running footsteps signalled that Rosie was barrelling towards him. He was just about able to bend down to her in time to catch her as she leaped into his arms, flinging her arms around his neck, and he picked her up, hugging her tightly, pressing his cheek against the side of her head.

He'd thought last night that it was enough to look at her, to see her sleeping and see that she was right where she should be. He'd been wrong, he knew that now. This was what he'd needed, to hold his daughter in his arms and know that from that that she was all right.

Over the child's shoulder, he caught sight of Deb, standing at the entrance to the kitchen, looking at them with a strange look on her face. It looked a little like sadness, yet there was a smile hovering around there too, one that broadened, albeit briefly, when her eyes met his. She turned away almost immediately though, going into the kitchen, and he patted Rosie once on the back, putting her back down on the ground, smiling down at her. True to form, she was babbling the moment she looked up at him. "Daddy, I wanted to stay up last night, but Mommy wouldn't let me," she announced solemnly.

"Mommy was right," he told her firmly, suppressing a grin at the pout that instantly appeared on her face. "It was very late when I got here… time for you to be in bed."

"Mommy said that some bad men took the President's daughter," she said, slipping her hand into his as they walked into the kitchen. "And that you were very sad… I wanted to cheer you up."

"Except that you fell asleep on the couch," Deb said, hearing the tail end of the sentence as they joined her in the kitchen, Rosie climbing onto a chair straight away, going back to her bowl of cereal.

Will's lips twitched, and he knew he shouldn't say it, but threw caution to the wind. "Like mother… " he muttered, loud enough for only Deb to hear, and he was rewarded by a narrow-eyed glare.

The glare didn't last long though, her eyes raking him up and down. "You look better," she finally pronounced. "But that suit… "

"I've got a spare one at the office," he told her, cutting her off before she went searching for the iron. "It'll be fine." Something was different though, something off about their normal morning routine, and it took him a second of scanning the room to work out what it was. Aside from their voices, there was no noise, no radio playing, no television broadcasting quietly in the corner. "Is there any news?" he asked, holding his breath for her answer, releasing it only when he saw her tiny shake of the head.

"Nothing," she told him, handing him a glass of orange juice. "Sit down, have some breakfast."

He accepted the orange juice, but refused the food, telling her, "I can get something in the White House."

Just as she'd done last night, she gave him a look that dared him to refuse her. "Sit down and eat," she ordered. "It's going to be a long day… have breakfast with your daughter."

He was sitting at the table before he'd even consciously decided that that was what he was going to do, and they spent the next few minutes, the three of them, sitting together, talking. Will told Rosie about his new apartment, promised her that she could see it soon, winced in pain at her squeal when he told her about her room, how she could decorate it any way she wanted. He smiled as she told him all about school, about the play that they were putting on, and he promised that he'd be there.

And through it all, Deb remained silent, not speaking, just listening.

The first words she spoke came when Rosie finished her breakfast, and she told her to go clean her teeth and get her things for school. Rosie stood up obediently, bringing her dishes over to the sink, going over to Will when he called her, telling her that he might be gone by the time she came back out, and she hugged him and kissed him, telling him that she loved him.

When she was gone, Will looked over at Deb, and was more than mildly surprised to see that she was biting her bottom lip and was studiously avoiding looking at him. Frowning, he reached out, taking her hand in his, not saying anything, just waiting. It didn't take long for her shoulders to rise and fall in a deep breath, for her eyes to meet his. "You're a great father," she told him quietly, her voice none too steady, and he knew that she was thinking of their conversation the previous evening. "I want you to know that."

He smiled, enclosing her hand in both of his. "Thank you," he whispered, and he wasn't just talking about the compliment. A rosy blush sweeping her cheeks told him that she knew it too, and he hated to leave her, but he knew he had to. "I should go."

She nodded, standing, walking him to the front door. "You can come over again tonight," she told him as they stood there, still hand in hand. "If you want to. I mean, you don't… "

He silenced her by bringing his now free left hand to her chin, cupping it carefully, studying her features as if he was seeing her for the first time. "I'd like that." He hardly recognised his own voice when he spoke, but he felt the shiver that ran the length of her body, felt the second one that began when his hand moved from her chin to her cheek and stayed there. Her skin felt warm underneath his palm, and without thought, acting purely on instinct, he leaned in and brushed his lips over hers. It was the briefest of contacts, but he felt it right down to his toes, and when he pulled back, saw her wide eyes and flushed cheeks, he knew she'd felt it too.

Stepping away from her, walking out that door, was the second-hardest thing that he'd ever done in his life, but he did it, telling her once again that he'd see her that night. She didn't speak, just nodded, but when he got to the end of the hall, she was standing at the door, looking after him, her hand pressed over her lips, an expression of wonderment on her face. For an instant, he considered turning around, going back to her, but in that moment, his cell phone began to ring, and when he held it up, he saw Toby's name on the caller ID. Knowing that the call could only bring a summons, he glanced back, intending to give her an apologetic look, but she'd already gone back into the apartment. Sighing, Will did the only thing he could; answered the phone and went outside to call a cab, beginning to count the hours until his return.


End file.
